


Leftovers

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [36]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Masochism, Necrophilia, Other, POV Second Person, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2019-10-07 10:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: The sudden, accidental, likely avoidable yet completely inevitable end of something not so great.





	Leftovers

**Author's Note:**

> this was the first completely original piece on rotworld, and was followed by a bunch of increasingly weird shit lol

You don’t mean to kill me, but it happens anyway.

Dust hangs stiflingly thick in the sunbeams filtering between the curtains and falling across my body twisted at the bottom of the stairs. You’re still standing at the top, almost as motionless as I am. Your eyes fall on the blood streaked over the faded wallpaper and you’re filled with disappointment. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You take the steps slowly, giving me time to climb back to my feet. You love it when I prove you wrong. But I just lay there, all the blood in my body pooling at my back, skin cooling, mouth hanging open. I don’t even have the decency to leave you with some parting words and you resent me for that.

(I’m not sorry. I can’t even pretend to be.)

You crouch down beside me. My legs are tangled on the stairs and my torso rests on the living room carpet. My head is turned too far to the side, looking away from you in rebellion. You take a fistful of my hair and drag me upright. I’m heavier dead than I ever was alive because I would adjust myself in your grip to make it easier for you. I read your body language and leaned into every cruel touch, arched my back when you bit me hard enough to draw blood and rutted against your leg like a bitch in heat when you slapped me. When you put your cigarettes out onto my skin and seared ashy, dime-sized circles into my arms, I begged you for more.

(You told me not to get greedy. Said I wouldn’t be any fun that way, and all I was good for was a little fun.

I loved it when you said that.)

But I don’t beg now. You pull and pull until my scalp is coming up beneath your fingers, the underside glistening ruby red in the light of early sunset. It’s worthless to you; you toss it aside. You take my wrist in those harsh fingers that would tear at my clothes and dig into my wounds, and you drag my corpse across the living room. Blood runs thickly down my face, over my dull, unseeing eyes and parted lips. When you drop me on the kitchen floor, I land face-down and it splatters in a halo around my head.

You would not have wished a dignified death upon me, but my falling down the stairs so gracelessly seems like a sign of disrespect. I’ve failed you somehow, I’ve managed to disappoint you in yet another way, and it’s useless to berate me for it.

(But you do it anyway. It reminds you of better days when I hardly knew you, bright-eyed and attentive. You remember the first time you stabbed me, sunk a kitchen knife into my shoulder from across the dinner table without warning. You had thought about it all night but I hadn’t seen it coming.

You saw the pain of betrayal etch itself into my face, tears spilling from my eyes as I clutched my blooded shoulder, the frayed skin poking out between my fingers, and it made arousal pool in the pit of your stomach.

You chased the high that you would never have again, because the shadow of resignation loomed over me after that.)

You tell me you are displeased as you rummage through the cupboards. You say you wanted this to last, you really did. You assure me it was an accident.

You keep a butcher’s hand saw beneath the sink just for me. You were saving it for a special occasion, but I’ve ruined everything. “You’re so clumsy,” you tell me, squeezing my wrist and watching my tendons bulge beneath my skin. “What kind of idiot falls down the stairs? I didn’t even push you that hard.”

(I don’t answer, but you imagine shame on my face, a litany of apologies spilling from my lips. Maybe I grovel at your feet and beg for your forgiveness, so you brush my hair out of my face kindly and ask me to lie still as you carve something demeaning into my stomach.

It’s a lie; you would never forgive me, and I know that.

I still take off my shirt and wait patiently.)

You like my hands. You used to slice open my palm and fuck the wound with your tongue. You pull my fingers taut and hold my hand still on the linoleum floor. Dragging the saw teeth back and forth across my wrist, you watch my skin split and fray, bone peeking out at you through muscle and tissue. 

You struggle at first but you manage to mangle my wrist and tear my hand from my body. Blood pools lazily from the bloodied stump at the end of my arm. You raise it to your mouth and run your tongue over my pulpy flesh. I disgust you, no longer fresh, unfit for your consumption. Unfit for anything, really, when I can’t even scream for you, can’t beg for mercy or cry.

My skin is cool, nearly room temperature. You trace my lips with your fingers and your thoughts begin wandering. We never did kiss. You didn’t like it.

(I asked you once and you took a pocket knife to my mouth, grabbed me by the back of the neck and carved a Glasglow smile into my face. It healed ugly and jagged but you said you liked me better that way.

You never told me if that was true or not.

Really, you hardly noticed a difference.)

Out of morbid curiosity, you decide to see what it’s like. You cradle my head with a gentleness you never let me feel and press your mouth to mine. I’m pleasantly soft, and you delight in taking my lower lip between your teeth, grinding the flesh into savory gristle. It’s so much better than my arm, sickeningly sweet, and you’re almost inclined to praise me.

(But you don’t. I still went and died on you in such an embarrassing way, clumsy and stupid and shameful. I don’t deserve your praise.)

You go deeper. You shove your hand into the drying cavity of my mouth, pinching my tongue between your fingers. It’s still damp and disgusting. You tear it apart like you’ve always wanted to, rip it out of my mouth with red, straining connective tissue hanging limply from one end. You chew idly on the tip and run your bloody hand through my hair. You’re going to miss what we had. You tell me that, too.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, “I was hoping you’d last a little longer.”

You are kind to what is left of me. You rub my back and hold my hand

(the one still attached)

and you say thank you for what little pleasure I could bring you. You just want to see what all the things I wanted are like.

You don’t like them after all. You knew you wouldn’t.

You dismember me on the kitchen floor and lay in my blood, staring at the ceiling with my head in your arms. You don’t apologize. You don’t even feel bad about it; that’s beneath you.

But you do stay there, the silence nearly deafening and out of place in the house where our voices should be,

(my screaming, my sobbing, my promises that I will do better, be better, and your assurances that I will never be good enough)

and you feel the dull ache of nostalgia.


End file.
